"You should sleep," Rhett said softly, leaning against the archway of Camille's chamber as she pulled off her boots, fingers trembling more than she wanted to admit.
"I don't think I remember how," she murmured. "Too many dreams that weren't mine."
He crossed the room slowly, his silhouette framed by the dying firelight, and sat on the bench opposite her. "They're yours now. All of them."
"That's the problem," she replied. "They weren't meant for one person."
"They chose you," he said. "Or maybe you chose them."
Camille leaned back, hands braced on the stone ledge behind her, staring at the ceiling where the light flickered like memory. "What if I can't carry them all?"
"You already are."
She turned to look at him.
He didn't look away.
Rhett had always carried his strength like a cloak visible, but never loud. Now, in the quiet after the storm, it rested heavier on him, like even his shadows were tired.
"You didn't ask for this either," she said.
